Among the standard colors in the rainbow, it seems that blue has the most variations. Perhaps that’s why so many people cite it as their favorite color. I happen to prefer fiery red. Think about it. Have you ever tried describing the color blue to someone? There are sky blues, royal blues, and electric blues. There are gray blues, green blues, and blue blues, muted and radiant and somewhere in between. There are teals, turquoises, and periwinkles which often straddle the line of purple and blue depending on the richness of the hue. There’s the range of ombré blues in the ocean that vary with the depth of the water. There’s Bluebird blue, Blue Jay blue, and Robin’s egg blue that hatches a bird without a speck of blue. Have you ever noticed how many companies use blue in their logo? Just look at the ones related to technology and you’ll see they’re predominately blue: Twitter, Facebook, Skype, Internet Explorer, Microsoft Windows, Dell, HP, and AOL. Insurance companies seem to use a lot of blue: Progressive, Allstate, Kaiser Permanente, Geico, Nationwide, Aetna, and Blue Cross/Blue Shield. Maybe blue is like Switzerland in terms of being aesthetically neutral. I’ve never heard any opposition to blue. Blue is just kind of there. Autism Speaks uses the color blue for their puzzle piece. After doing some research, I learned that the organization uses blue to represent the disproportionate number of boys who are diagnosed than girls. For me, blue is the perfect choice to signify autism because the spectrum of blues represents the variation in those affected. Here’s how autism shows in Peter:

FACE VALUE: My daughter was using a Clorox bleach pen to make the rubber on her Converse shoes look new again. Peter was watching. I warned them about getting bleach on their clothes because it would turn the colored parts white. Kind of like deodorant does only permanent. A little while later Peter came into the house holding back tears. Some bleach got onto his skin and he thought he’d discolored his skin forever. Because every child who’s colored a picture knows that Caucasians aren’t really white but a peachy color.

SENSORY: One good thing about having two kids of the same sex is all the money I’ve saved on hand me down clothes. (Side note: I used to write hammy downs, spelling it exactly as I pronounced it. Thanks for the correction, Mom.) Of course there are many clothing items that didn’t work for Peter like frat shirts and shorts with buttons and hook and eye clasps and any other bottom that wasn’t straight elastic. One day he even complained that the leg holes in his shorts were too big. So I dropped a change of shorts at school so he’d be comfortable. He’s even said that wearing socks bothers him. So he took matters into his own hands and came home from school showing me how he’d cut them.HOARD & PURGE: One thing Peter will probably never be accused of is having too much clutter around. He’s always organizing and reorganizing his room for fun. He’ll move stuff from his closet and arrange it on the perimeter of his bed, forgetting that he hasn’t left enough room to sleep. He’s even tried selling some of his military toys to a preschool neighbor. Toys that he’d been given as recently as Christmas, though he'd spent more time hoarding them than he did actually playing with them.

NEVER MET A STRANGER: Peter accidentally dialed a wrong number on our house phone. Instead of hanging up, he made “friends” with the person. He told me the boy was eighteen and he’d even played the piano while Peter listened. Sight unseen, Peter didn’t understand how this person was a stranger. I had to hide the handset so Peter would stop calling. SOCIAL CUES: This one could be lumped in with the one above about strangers. When I took Peter to get his stitches removed, the receptionist was finishing up a call. As soon as he hung up the phone, Peter asked, “Who was that?” The receptionist and I smiled at one another. “Nobody has ever asked me that!” he replied with his upper lip catching on his silver braces. We both found the humor in Peter’s misstep according to social norms. As the saying goes: “If you’ve met one person with autism, then you’ve met one person with autism.” The same is true about Peter. He's definitely one of a kind.

There’s one word that’ll never describe motherhood—boring. Motherhood is many things like exhausting, monotonous, thankless and, to throw in a not so negative adjective, I guess it can be joyful at times. But, boring? Never. Yesterday the school nurse called me around 1:00 p.m. to say that Peter had bumped his head and that there was some blood. And, generally speaking, I’m a shake-it-off-kind-of-mom. I thought the nurse was just preparing me for when he came home with a gash on his temple (i.e. accidents happen and we’re not liable). Then she told me she was packing up his stuff to come home. Damn it! I thought. So much for the rest of my afternoon. And so much for that planned shower that I hadn’t yet gotten to. I hung up and the phone rang again. My husband was calling to make sure I got the message because they’d notified him, too. I told him that I was going to play it conservatively and see if Peter needed stitches because I’m a little jaded thinking first about insurance misers, co-pays, and out-of-pocket fees. Then my husband and I got into a debate over whether I was acting conservatively or liberally by not rushing to the E.R. I have a tendency to confuse myself sometimes like when I say turn the thermostat down for colder air or tell my son to open the shower curtain so it can dry. He says, “You mean close it?” No! I mean stretch it out in the open position. Sometimes I only make sense to me.

I hurried to the school and as soon as I saw Peter, I knew he needed stitches. So we made a detour by home to blow out the candle I’d left burning on the kitchen counter because nothing like that mom instinct to divert a disaster. I decided to take Peter to one of those urgent care clinics because going to the E.R. is nothing short of a three hour process. I sometimes forget how comical Peter can be like the way he told everyone from the receptionist to the doctor what happened at length. How he was 360ing (turning in circles) in his classroom and the blood soaked the towel. The doctor asked him, “Did the desk hit you or did you hit the desk?” Pardon me, but unless kids are hurling desks around the room I think Peter hit the desk.

I asked the nurse how she was going to numb Peter and when she told me with Lidocaine, I assumed that meant an ointment. That’s the protocol at the children’s hospital. Then came a clear, miniature jar of medicine and a needle to inject into the wound! Peter was brave and tough and all the things we normally associate with boys. The nurse told us about a not so brave man who was a wuss. My word, not hers. Peter called him a pussy. Thankfully the nurse didn’t catch that. She left the room and Peter preceded to pretend to grasp all of the pussies in his vocabulary and throw them in the trash. Eight-year-olds don’t talk like that, I told him. I got to thinking about men and boys, how we expect them to be tough and how society throws off of them. And I remembered this psychologist I saw on T.V. recently. She was talking about how men are always the stupid, inept ones in sitcoms and how that’s damaging to boys. I’m even guilty of throwing off on my husband whether it’s his driving, his inability to find something right in front of him, or generalized inferiority to women. And maybe I’m prejudiced because I’ve never heard my children say, “Dad can do everything.” They’ve instead said that about me because that’s what mothers do, a little bit of everything. But as a mom to two boys, I don’t want to put men down because that’s essentially putting them down. They’re too young to get the humorous jabs that are momentarily funny to me but might be damaging to them forever. I just hope there’s no harm in thinking it.

Peter loving any dog that will let him. I wasn't quick enough to capture the dog putting his right paw on Peter's shoulder.

Peter’s been talking a lot about college lately. Not about football teams and mascots but getting an education there. I see the thoughts churning in his head picturing himself at college. He asks, “How many years does it take?” even though he still can’t comprehend time frames or the difference between next week, next month, or next year. His teachers told him that it takes good grades to get into college. I won’t tell him about alternate pathways like community colleges and trade schools yet. Thankful me is just glad that college is on his radar and for a second grader that’s pretty impressive. It wasn’t that long ago that Peter could care less about school. He’d talk about going to summer school like it was a good thing not realizing that going is like a punishment. No kid would choose sterile classrooms and tests over X-box, swimming pools, and bike rides. Sometimes Peter’s reasoning capacity is off from the rest of the world. There are times when I can’t dissuade him from hurting himself. It’s like trying to explain that doing bad in school is like shooting himself in the foot. Then I have to deconstruct the un-literal meaning of that expression. Peter carries around a daily progress sheet because getting an ‘N’ at the end of every week doesn’t have much of an impact on his behavior. He needs reinforcement from every teacher, after every class period, every day. And he’s behaved better since his teachers started using this method of immediate accountability midway through the school year. He knows that doing well in school will help him get into college a full decade from now. But who’s really counting? Not Peter. His teachers? Well, I think they're counting down until the end of this school year, especially when Peter gets a case of diarrhea of the mouth. This is the sheet that came home last week.

The blue part didn't copy well.

This is what's written at the top of the sheet in blue: Good day. Peter got a little frustrated at recess, but he turned it around…And not 2 minutes after I wrote that he yelled, “Let’s play a game called hate our teachers!" We talked about how words can be hurtful. The roller coaster continues.

Like many mothers, or women in general depending on who you ask, I have a lot of pet peeves. Things like dirty dishes left in the sink when the dishwasher’s been emptied and moist sunflower shells that didn’t quite make it into the trashcan. Empty packages littering the pantry shelves and losing grip of the peanut butter jar because someone tried to pop on a twist top lid. Kids are the masters of taking short cuts leaving others to pick up the slack. But perhaps my greatest pet peeve of all has to do with life in general. I call it going through the motions. And I despise doing things just because. I’m sure you’re familiar with these man-made situations inherent in every bureaucracy. Situations where you’re forced to follow the formalities even though they defy logical sense. My initiation into the educational bureaucracy came when Peter was three. I had him tested to see if he qualified for a county-run special needs preschool. I submitted his paperwork in April and he wasn’t tested until after the start of the next school year. Getting a child tested and enrolled by the start of the school year wasn’t a priority. Sadly, bureaucracies are full of policies that define the irrationality of rationality. Nearly five years later, I still encounter this kind of head scratching frustration. Take for instance the date of the annual IEP meeting. (Side note: IEP stands for Individualized Education Plan that’s a set of personalized goals and tasks for special needs students.) These meetings are done once annually and they must occur before the date of the last one. Dates that make me just as nervous as having my teeth cleaned in between the six-month period my insurance allows. Peter’s meeting happens to fall in March. This is two months before the end of the school year, which means that changes are enacted nearing the end of each grade. Wouldn’t it make sense to have meetings at the very end or beginning of the next year to coincide with the duration of each grade level? During this year’s IEP meeting, Peter’s teachers were discussing his area of weakness in reading. I mentioned his most recent report card, which seemed to contradict his needs. To an untrained eye, it would seem that Peter’s excelling in on level, second grade reading with a grade of 96. Per the IEP, he reads at a first grade level. How could two criteria completed by the same teachers be so vastly different? Peter’s teachers told me to basically disregard the report card because it isn’t a true reflection of his progress. They explained to me that they aren’t able to record anything lower than on level. We shake our heads in unison, unable to make sense of this irrationality of rationality grading process. So I’m left to wonder why teachers are forced to go through the motions and misrepresent a child’s progress. Just because there’s no option in the computerized grading system? Why should the minions of the educational system (in terms of pay, status, etc.) adhere to a process that falsifies a child’s abilities? Just to satisfy some higher ups who are disconnected from the classroom? Does this scoring system based on semantics affect federal funding or a school’s rating? What is it? What purpose does this serve? Certainly not our children.

Peter’s obsessed with planes and skydiving. Before YouTube he didn’t even know what skydiving was and I’m still not sure he does. Peter’s got his life all mapped out. “I’m going to skydive and then get a job,” he tells me. I guess in his mind doing both are mutually exclusive. Yesterday he asked me, “Can I go skydiving with Dad?” “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him,” I say. No way in hell would Dad sky dive. I wouldn’t either. I don’t even know if I’d go on a roller coaster anymore. That might have to do with my fear of wetting my pants than anything. Nobody comes out on the other end unscathed after having four kids. My bladder will attest to that. You owe me kids. Peter has always been a thrill-seeker. The type of kid that opened the doors of moving cars and ran across parking lots without looking right or left or anywhere but straight ahead. I was convinced that he was born without peripheral vision. He’s better now, but that thrill-seeking gene is still the same. I guess it’s fair to call it a gene because I was once a thrill-seeker, riding Freefall at Six Flags and scaling Pin Oak trees as high as the branches would take me. Now I have Acrophobia and Claustrophobia and probably some other phobias that I'm not even aware of yet. Thankfully no Ephebiphobia, at least not when it comes to my own kids. Here's a book Peter made in school. Maybe one day he'll be a paratrooper in the army. That way he wouldn't have to sacrifice work to skydive!

So I’m not normally one to jump on any bandwagon but, with today being World Autism Awareness Day, I have my own story of awareness, or rather indifference, to share. You might’ve heard stories about neighbors who’ve complained about autistic children making loud sounds or being a general nuisance, even writing hateful letters and suggesting they move. While I’ve never experienced the extent of that shameful intolerance, I have had run-ins with neighbors that’ve left me searching for some compassion. Peter never played with toys when he was younger. So from the time he was around three, he played with empty milk crates, cardboard boxes, old towels, 2x4s, traffic cones, different tools, and every other odd and end that he could scrounge up from the garage. Collective things that he called his work site. Each thing was special to him and he could tell if something was missing. He’d cart everything with his two wagons from our garage to the fork in the gravel driveway that we shared with our neighbors. He did the same thing day after day, setting up his work site right after preschool and first thing in the morning on weekends. He’d play from sunrise to sunset, and sometimes beyond.

Peter circa 2010

I’d check on Peter periodically, making sure he kept everything arranged on our side of the yard so it wouldn’t block the neighbor’s driveway. And Peter knew the limits of where he could set up his stuff based on the concrete lines on the paved part. Some days I’d just leave his work site in place so he wouldn’t have to go through the rigmarole of setting it up the next day. This was especially true during summer when the days are longer and bedtimes don’t matter. Not that he ever adhered to one. Besides, who was his work site hurting? Well, apparently our neighbor. A man who was like Mr. Wilson in Dennis the Menace, only younger. The type of man who called to talk to my husband, even though I’d answered the phone, requesting that we stop letting our kids come over all at once because there’s “just too many.” You would’ve thought our family of four kids was the size of the Duggars. And when it came to Peter’s work site, he complained not to me but to his mother-in-law, a.k.a. our landlady. Given that situation, and the imbalance of power, there wasn’t much else I could do but give in to the request. So from then on, I moved Peter’s stuff to our front patio at night, cursing our neighbor and wishing I could tell him where to get off for being unnecessarily difficult and complicating a life that was already hard enough. For making an additional hardship that only an autism parent would understand. Peter eventually gave up his work site. I never thought I’d say this, but I kind of miss it. Kind of. Oh, and those neighbors have since moved. Autism awareness shouldn’t start and stop in April, especially when 1 in 68 children are being diagnosed. If that doesn’t sound the alarm in every expectant parent, it should. For me, autism wasn’t even something on my radar when I had Peter in 2006. I try and do my part to spread the word each day. I have a blue Autism Speaks puzzle piece lapel pin on my purse. And when people ask about it, I share what autism is and that I have a son with it. It’s like my own conversation piece. I know there will still be people who just don’t get it. People who think it’s lack of discipline and bad parenting. Those same people who probably still use the word retard without thinking twice. But for just one person to get it, that’s progress.

I’m not sure where my kids picked up the phrase lesbihonest, pronounced with a hard ‘s’ that sounds more like ‘z.’ Saying lesbihonest is merely a clever way to insert the word “lesbian,” which, giggle giggle, is only funny if you’re younger than twelve. I’ve never had an issue with my children saying lesbian as long as it’s applied in the right context. I know some parents who forbid their children from using that word, let alone knowing what it even means. And I’ve also known parents who banned their kids from watching SpongeBob SquarePants because it takes place in Bikini Bottom. They probably ban their kids from saying Norfolk, too, as in that city in Virginia. I’ve always had trouble saying that word.

Of course, just because my children know certain words doesn’t mean that I let them use them. I’m not simply talking about cuss words or curse words (tomāto tomato). One day my 9-year-old daughter accused me of calling my other daughter a slut. After sorting out her mistake, she realized that I’d said the word slacker. That’s like when Peter had trouble sleeping so I told him to tell his teachers that he had insomnia. They spent the whole day thinking he had nausea.

We’ve all been taught that knowledge is power and part of that is having an expanded vocabulary. Peter was typically autistic in that he talked late, but his word usage has always seemed ahead of his years. He’ll ask me politely, “I’d appreciate it if you’d buy me some grape juice.” And, ever one to work the system, he confessed to being “lazy” thinking that would excuse him from finishing his schoolwork. Sometimes he doesn’t know when to apply a certain word. Yesterday he told his sisters that his older brother was at the park playing basketball with some “negroes.” Collectively my daughters and I froze. I had a similar reaction when he once used the word “douche.” So I explained to Peter that it’s not appropriate to use the word negroes. “No, I learned it when we learned about African Americans,” he told me. Knowledge can be a blessing and a curse in an unfiltered autistic brain.

Yesterday’s lessons didn’t end there. We got home and Peter asked me what the inside of his “balls” looked like. So after introducing more appropriate terms like testicles and scrotum, I went straight to Google for images. This kind of straight talk happens a lot in our household. A frank honesty that’s just part of living with Peter. Then he asked me where electricity came from. After stalling with a long “umm” while scanning my brain for an answer, I told him it comes from wires. (Hey! No judgment out there.) Peter corrected me and told me it comes from coal. That’s one of those parenting moments when feeling stupid just comes with the territory. And so does the perk of learning from your kids.

I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve traveled by plane. I don’t have any connections to pilots or flight attendants. Still, I’m fascinated by the mystery of the Malaysian flight. I watched non-stop news coverage during the week that I was sick. And as demented as this might sound, as a news junkie, I was glad that there was really breaking news instead of recycled stories that aren’t really news at all. That said, I’d never wish for this kind of tragedy just for my entertainment.

For the past few days, I’m not as attuned to the latest developments because the coverage is more speculation than anything. I’ve also heard the criticism about people’s obsession with the story. And I cowered in my living room because they might as well have been talking directly to me. I wondered why I’ve been so curious and then I realized that it’s human nature to want to know the answers to how, what, when, where, and why. The same is true when it comes to an autism diagnosis. And like some mysteries, the “why” may always stay unanswered. I’m finally okay with that.

Image Credit: Dreamstime

For nearly four years, I’d wondered why Peter had autism. Why after three neurotypical children, with similar pregnancies, did I have a child with autism? How could I have three children who are supposedly Talented and Gifted and then have one child struggling to read into the second grade? I couldn’t make sense of it. Knowing “why” seemed like step one of acceptance. You’ve probably heard the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I’d wanted to point the finger at someone or something. Was it my husband’s age or the pediatricians who’d overprescribed antibiotics, ten rounds and two intravenous ones, before Peter’s second birthday? I thought answering “why” mattered. But, the more time goes on, I realize that having an answer won’t change the outcome. That’s when I realized that I’m closer to acceptance than I’ve ever been since I first saw the signs of autism. Signs that I thought were possibly bipolar because, just a few years ago, anything was better than an autism diagnosis. Yesterday, on the way to round two of Peter’s dental work, he asked me why churches have schools. He didn’t remember going to a church preschool or being kicked out for hitting the teacher. He was almost ashamed that he’d behaved that way because hitting a teacher is a serious offense. His disbelief was a striking disconnect from the boy he is today to the boy who’d brought agony on himself and others just a few years ago. Peter’s progress has helped me accept our fate. I never thought that I’d have these conversations with him. Talks where I share the not so good parts of his past, leaving out the details that it was pure hell and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Maybe it’s true, time does heal. It also helps move you through the stages of grief. I share this so that you can find hope because there will be better days ahead. The hardest part is just not knowing when.

Not every artificial flavor translates well into other things. Ever tried that Extra dessert-flavored gum? Yeah—yuck! What about mint chocolate chip flavor? We love it as an ice cream, but in our toothpaste? Maybe that was a flavor targeted towards kids. I know that I wasn’t running to the drugstore when Crest introduced that new Be flavor line. Somehow chocolaty mint doesn’t equate to fresh breath. (Side note: Shout out to CVS for their no-cigs policy. And shout out to me for only using that expression once.) I’m sure that I would’ve tried mint chocolate when I was struggling to brush Peter's teeth. Then I would’ve probably thrown the tube under the sink with the rest of the rejects. If only root beer were a flavor then. I would’ve tried that one, too. I’d heard that many parents struggle with their children’s oral hygiene, especially those on the spectrum. Brushing Peter’s teeth was a battle I’d waged for years. Really, y-e-a-r-s. Try prying open a clenched mouth. You can’t. Peter didn’t care about rotted teeth. He was convinced of his own theory, like a get-rich-quick scheme. He wanted his teeth to fall out to get money from the Tooth Fairy. I’d unknowingly become my own nemesis.

No shoes, no problem.

Now, at nearly eight, Peter brushes his teeth willingly using a subtle minty flavored toothpaste and mouth rinse. But the damage is done. He has a mouth full of crowns or silver teeth as he calls them. He hates them and he knows not everyone has them. Yesterday, he had a filling, a crown, and two extractions from old fillings that had failed. The kind of major work that would be split into two office visits if he were an adult. In two weeks, Peter has to go back for another crown and spacers so the vacant gaps won’t close before his adult teeth come into place. As parents, it’s easy to concede certain battles with our children. A little more screen time and a little more juice. I know; I’ve been there. So this is a cautionary post. You’ve heard of Newton’s third law: “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” Well, with every inaction (i.e. not brushing) there is a greater reaction, with more decay (i.e. more money.) I accept the blame. I just wish someone else could accept the bill.

No matter how much we try and insulate…wait. Who am I kidding? It’s impossible to raise children in a bubble without pop culture influencing them. Just the other day my daughter came home with a homemade grill from the leftover tin foil in her lunch bag.

I’m so proud. I’m not sure whether to credit Madonna for the hideous fashion trend or some rapper spewing the ‘N’ word. That’s ‘N’ with an ‘a’ and, yes, the ending matters. That’s not a word that I use or condone. Kids learn this stuff. Just like they learn about sex and porn and everything else that we want to shelter them from for as long as we can. Even more cringeworthy than the homemade grill is when my 12-year-old son recites the lyrics to popular rap songs, word for word, as if he has a clue about gangsta life or the meaning of misogyny. I’ve told him that I won’t answer to being called “woman” even jokingly. And, because you're white, don't ever say the ‘N’ word even if everyone says it or that's how the song goes. Find a new verse, I tell him. Better yet, find a new song.

I also explain that we have a parrot in the house named Peter. Not an actual parrot, but a 7-year-old who will say whatever whenever, even revealing such personal things like how his older brother’s privates are now hairy. You see what I mean. He repeats everything, including the words he knows are forbidden. He told his teacher that if he was performing in the talent show he’d pick a song with all the bad words. Words that he'd recite if prompted.

I'm always worried that he's going to say something mortifying like calling grown men with ponytails girls or pudgy men with guts fat. He's done both. Over the weekend, I drove my oldest son and two of his friends to the basketball park. I was tense just waiting for Peter to blurt out something offensive to the two black friends. I held my breath as I turned into their apartment complex. Lately he’s been telling me how his classmates live in “mansions” so I expected him to make some kind of comparison. Whew—safe. He stayed quiet.

Then the boys got out of the car and he said it, the ‘N’ word, to his sister who was poking him in the backseat. I flung my head around and told him to never say that word again, thankful that I wasn’t scolding him minutes earlier. I told him that's one of the worst words to say. “Like vagina?” he asked me. “Way worse,” I told him. That’ll have to be the lesson for now.